


Happy Thanksgiving

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FACE Family, Human AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The FACE family celebrates a rather interesting Thanksgiving which ends in a real bang, courtesy of Kumajiro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Thanksgiving

_Thanksgiving Day 8:00 a.m._

            Early Thanksgiving Day, Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland were fast asleep upstairs while Matthew and Alfred watched TV downstairs. Or rather, Francis was asleep; Arthur was in that strange place between sleeping and waking. He lay still, relishing the coziness of the sheets, Francis’s warm, sleepy smell and the feel of Francis’s arms around him. Their cat, Scotia, purred and curled herself by Arthur’s head.

                _Mmm…I have so much to be thankful for,_ he thought drowsily. He snuggled closer to his beloved and rested his head on Francis’s chest. He could swear the Frenchman could tell, even in his sleep. _Oh, Francis. Where would I be without you?_

_8:30 a.m._

                “DADDY! DADDY! PAPA! PAPA! DADDY! You’re going to miss the Macy’s Day parade!” Alfred bellowed, pounding up the stairs and bursting into his parents’ bedroom. “Daddy! Papa!” He got a running start and launched himself right into the middle of their bed, still going on about the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

                “Bloody hell!” Arthur shrieked as Alfred cannoned into him. “What’s going on?!”

                “ _Mon Dieu! Que ’est que c’est_!?” Francis sat bolt upright in bed in the same instant that Arthur threw an arm out, intending to grab the pepper spray he kept by the bedside table, but his hand connected solidly with Francis’ face. “AI! Arthur, what are you doing?!” Francis clutched his nose. Scotia startled and sprang over Arthur’s shoulder, her claws stinging through his thin pajama shirt as she fled the scene.

                “OW! I’m sorry, love!” Arthur withdrew his hand.

“You did that on purpose!” Francis exclaimed, snapping his ocean blue gaze over to Arthur.

“I most certainly did not!” Arthur replied heatedly.

“Oh, _oui_ , and the sky is not blue!” Francis scoffed.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Arthur snapped.

“You don’t make sense!” Before Alfred knew what had happened, Arthur and Francis were trying to strangle each other on the bed.

                “Stupid frog!”

                “Tasteless heathen!”

                “DADDY!” Alfred interrupted and smacked Arthur with a pillow. “You’re missing the Macy’s Day parade!” The two men stopped trying to throttle each other and sat up, breathing heavily. Alfred repeated his message. When Arthur’s only reaction was to look to the sky for strength in dealing with this child, Alfred walloped him again. “Daddy!”

                “For God’s sake, stop that!” Arthur wrestled the pillow from the eager boy’s hands.

                “But you’re MISSING the PARADE,” Alfred pouted, crossing his arms. His father clearly didn’t see the seriousness of this issue.

                “I told you not to wake them,” Matthew said quietly, appearing beside the bed, clutching his stuffed bear, Kumajiro.

                “Well they were going to miss the parade!” Alfred repeated, sliding off the bed. He waved for Matthew to follow him back downstairs so they could finish their cereal and watch the parade.

_9:45 a.m._

                “How do you want your crepes, _cheri_?” Francis called from the kitchen.

                “No crepes!” Alfred declared. “I can’t eat until dinner!” Francis sighed and rolled his eyes, smiling in loving exasperation.

                “Well then, Matthew? How would you like Alfred’s crepes?” he asked.

                “With blueberries, please, Papa,” Matthew replied. Francis set the crepes on a plate and folded some blueberries into them, slathered them with homemade whipped cream and set them on the breakfast bar.

                “There you are, _petit_! Arthur, how would you like yours?”

                “You know I hate it when you make crepes,” Arthur said sweetly, through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you let me make them some breakfast biscuits?”

“I’d rather they lived to eat my delicious Thanksgiving dinner,” Francis replied, smiling and served Arthur up some strawberry crepes, which he made sure not to eat.

_10:30 a.m._

     “WOW! Look, it’s Snoopy!” Alfred shouted, throwing up a hand and knocking the remainder of Matthew’s crepes onto the floor. Their chocolate lab, Winthrop, lumbered over and finished up the crepes.

                “Thanks for the update,” Matthew said dryly, casting a wistful glance at Winthrop’s cream-covered muzzle. Oh, well. That was life with a twin brother like Alfred for you.

                “Very nice,” Arthur said, not looking up from his paper.

                “Keep watch for Tintin, Alfred!” Francis instructed from the kitchen, where he was already hard at work on their dinner.

                “They’re not parading your lousy French cartoons!” Arthur took a strange pleasure in shooting down Francis’ ideas.

                “You never know, _mon amour_!” Francis replied, infuriatingly smug.

                “OH! It’s Garfield!”

                “Hey, it’s Elmo,” Matthew pointed out. No one heard him. He sighed.

_11:05 a.m._

“Why don’t you let me help you cook?” Arthur asked, sidling into the kitchen, which was packed with steam and delicious smells. Francis had a kind of manic energy shining in his eyes as he moved from dish to dish, adding this, stirring that, cutting some vegetables.

“ _Non_ , I have everything under control!” he told Arthur. His hair was starting to stick to his forehead with sweat, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Really,” Arthur insisted, a childish look on his face. He clutched the edge of the counter and twisted his foot into the hardwood floor. “I want to help!” Francis let out a long breath. What didn’t he mind having ruined? The stuffing? Non! The cranberry sauce? Absolutely non! What about desert? Non, Alfred would throw a fit. Then he had a brilliant idea.

“ _Mon petit chou_ ,” he said lovingly, taking the time to put an arm around Arthur’s waist and pressing his cheek against Arthur’s. “Why don’t you make some of your lovely scones? I know how you love them.” Dead on-Arthur’s face lit up.

“You mean it?” he asked, resembling Alfred for a moment, locking his bright green eyes on Francis’s face.

“Of course-”

“DADDY! Mickey Mouse is on!” Francis smiled even as Arthur looked to the sky.

“Go and watch the parade with them, _amour_ ,” Francis said kindly. “I’ll keep cooking and you can come in when it’s over.” Arthur smiled and gave Francis’s hand a squeeze before exiting back into the living room, where Alfred and Matthew dragged him back onto the couch and took up a place on either side of their daddy.

Francis half-hoped Arthur would forget about cooking.

_11:16 a.m._

Even with all the chaos going on in the kitchen, Francis managed to grab the phone on the second ring.

“Allo?”

 _“Hey, Francis!”_ The heavily accented voice on the other end could only be one person. Francis tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder while he stirred the gravy.

“I suppose you want to talk to Arthur?” Francis said.

_“Why would I want to talk to that prick? I called to talk to you!”_

“I’m touched, _cherie_!” Francis laughed. Arthur peered into the kitchen from over the couch back. Francis mouthed, _It’s your sister,_ and Arthur cringed. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from the boys and came into the kitchen.

_“How’s everything going? I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other!”_

“It has been too long,” Francis agreed as Arthur reached him and held out his hand. He covered the phone with one hand. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Then why the devil did she call?” Arthur demanded, a surly expression on his face. Francis held up a hand as Mairead continued.

_“Far too long! How’s work? Oh, did I tell you? Raak and Kowhai came up for Thanksgiving!”_

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Mairead! But do you even celebrate Thanksgiving?” Francis asked, checking the dough for his pumpkin pie.

_“Of course! We’re in America after all, eejit.” She laughed. “Hey, is Alfred around? I’d really like to talk to him!”_

“Sure thing. Alf-!” Alfred was already standing at Arthur’s side, watching Francis.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Phone.” Francis held it out and Alfred grabbed it.

“Hello?” he chirped.

_“Alfred! It’s your Aunt Mairead. How’s my favorite nephew?”_

“I’m good! We’re watching the Macy’s Day parade and Papa Francis is making dinner!” Alfred marched around the kitchen as he spoke.

_“As long as you don’t let your daddy near it, it’ll be amazing,” Mairead told him._

“I don’t want her talking to Alfred!” Arthur hissed to Francis, who shrugged.

“She is his aunt, _ma cœur_. And she loves him dearly,” Francis said.

“Are you going to come celebrate Thanksgiving with us? I’m sure Papa and Daddy would love to have you all!”

“That’s QUITE enough.” Arthur snatched the phone from Alfred’s grasp. “No one is coming over for Thanksgiving.” He put the phone to his ear. “Mairead, you’d better not be-” _Click!_ Arthur looked at Francis with an outraged expression. “She hung up on me!”

“Are you really surprised, _mon amour_?” Francis asked with a sigh.

“Alfred! Po is on!” Matthew’s cry sent Alfred racing back into the living room.

_12:23 a.m._

As the parade wrapped up, Arthur came back into the kitchen.

“Is there room for two?” he asked. Francis remembered his promise about the scones and cursed silently.

“Of course, _cheri_!” So Arthur got to work on his scones, although he was forced to work around Francis and his many dishes. Alfred and Matthew trooped upstairs after the parade to go play and after a while, Francis noticed that it was suspiciously quiet.

Winthrop trotted around the corner with a strange new addition to his smooth brown complexion.

“ _Quoi_?” Francis looked closer at the dog’s colorful rear and realized the boys had glued a collection of Arthur’s fake craft feathers to the dog’s rump. “Alfred! Matthew!” Not a sound.

Then, all at once, both boys came charging through the dining room and into the kitchen. Alfred was wearing only brown shorts and had covered himself in paint. He had stuck feathers in a sideways headband and was waving his plastic bow and arrows around. Matthew, dressed up in his pilgrim costume from the school play last year, carried a fake gun and followed close on his brother’s heels. Alfred let out a war whoop when he saw Winthrop.

“There it is!” he yelled. He took aim with his bow and fired. The suction-cup arrow hit Winthrop in the ear and bounced to the floor. The dog didn’t react beyond giving Alfred a baleful look. Alfred pumped his bow in the air and whooped again. “Get the turkey!”

“Alfred!” Arthur bellowed. “Put that down right now!” Both children ignored their dad and as Winthrop made for the back door, Alfred hurried ahead of him to open the door. Matthew took aim with his gun and fired, though there was only a loud popping sound.

“You almost got him!” Alfred told his brother. He raised his bow with a new arrow notched (nocked). “CHARGE!”

_1:11 p.m._

                Francis’s savior came in the form of his misbehaving children. When Arthur finally caught up with them, he sent Matthew to remove the feathers from Winthrop’s furry bum and carried a thrashing, war-whooping Alfred up the stairs for a bath. He stripped the boy of his shorts and underwear and plunked him into the bath, cold.

                The boy shrieked and howled as though he was being skinned alive as Arthur none-too-gently scrubbed the paint off his face and body. He tossed the modified headband over his shoulder and dumped a cup of water over Alfred’s head.

                While that drama played out upstairs and Matthew chased Winthrop around, grabbing a feather when he could, someone rang the doorbell.

                Wiping his hand on his apron, Francis opened the door to see their neighbor, Elizabeta Edelstien and her young son-what was his name?-dressed all in black. She held out a pilgrim hat.

                “I think your son left this on my lawn,” she said, her mouth curving into a smile.

                “Oh, _merci_!” Francis took the hat. “They’ve gotten a little out of hand today. Alfred is upstairs getting a bath.” Francis gestured to the balcony, over which Alfred’s furious screams echoed. Elizabeta stifled a laugh.

                “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said with a wave as she and her boy turned to go.

                “Happy Thanksgiving!” Francis repeated, waving Matthew’s pilgrim hat.

_1:28 p.m._

Alfred appeared in the kitchen sometime after Arthur had returned and resumed making his scones. He lurked in the doorway to the dining room, a sulky expression on his face.

“I can’t be an Indian without war paint,” he said petulantly.

“Go help your brother fix the dog,” Arthur snapped. As if to punctuate this request, Winthrop shuffled through the kitchen with Mattie following, trying to snag another feather off of his body.

_2:20 p.m._

     Francis let out a sigh of relief when Arthur put his scones off to cool and departed the kitchen. Almost immediately the man was assailed by Alfred, who seemed to have forgiven him for the Indian incident.

                “Daddy! Play football with me!” Alfred begged, clutching his blue and gold foam football.

                “No, Alfred,” Arthur said, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes. “I’m tired.”

                “Please, Daddy!” Alfred grabbed Arthur’s arm and swung it back and forth. “Please, please, please, please, please! Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaasssssssseeeeee!” He rocked back and forth on his feet, pulling on Arthur’s arm.

                “Alfred, we don’t even have equal teams!” Arthur pointed out grouchily, opening one eye. “Which team would Matthew go on?”

                “Mattie doesn’t want to play!” Alfred said triumphantly. “He can be the cheerleader!”

                “No. I’m not playing football.”

                “Why nooooooottttt?” Alfred whined. A sly expression crept across his face. “Are you too OLD? I bet Papa Francis would play with me!”

                “Absolutely!” Francis put in from the kitchen, where he’d been listening to this little exchange. _Never on your life, my dear little son,_ he thought.

                “Shut up, frog!” Arthur retorted. He sat up and looked at Alfred’s puppy-dog face for a long time. “Fine. But touch football only! No tackling!”

                “Hooray!” Alfred cheered, running for the front door. Matthew pattered down the stairs, bundled up in his jacket and a scarf and went out after his brother, who had of course left the door wide open.

                Matthew played referee (though Alfred continued to refer to him as a cheerleader) and the game began. It went fairly well, until the trash talking started. Arthur began it, really, by insisting that he would win for sure. It got Alfred’s blood up and when Arthur got a hold of the ball, running towards the right side of the yard, Alfred sprinted as fast as he could and threw himself at his dad. Arthur had already reached the so designated “end zone” by the time Alfred leaped, so when the boy hit him, he plowed them both right into the fence.

                With a crash, they burst into the Beilschmidt’s front yard, wood splinters and chunks flying. Arthur was dazed for a heartbeat or two, and if Alfred had had more than two brain cells to rub together, he would have started running. Unfortunately, he remained on the grass, trying to find his football, and therefore had little time to get a head start in his flight.

                “ALFRED!”  

_2:50 p.m._

     “…and I’m very, very, very sorry,” Alfred apologized, scuffing his shoes on the Beilschmidt’s front stoop. “I didn’t mean to break your fence and my daddy told me not to tackle, but I did anyway, so I’m very sorry.”

                Arthur had forced Francis to take Alfred over to apologize, since Gilbert was much more likely to be receptive to the news when it was coming from his best friend. Gilbert was leaning in his doorframe, watching Alfred with an unreadable expression.

                “Ja, it’s okay,” he grunted at last. “It’s a shitty fence anyway. Don’t let Arthur be too hard on you.” He gave Alfred a slap on the back. “He’s such a buzz-kill. Don’t worry about the fence, but in the future…if you break my awesome new fence, which I’ll be ordering later today, I’ll send Ivan after you! Kesesese!”

                Alfred’s blue eyes grew to the size of dinner plates at the mention of their Russian neighbor, who, it was rumored, was convicted of several murders and had hence fled to America. He nodded frantically.

                “Yessir!”

                Francis grinned at Gilbert; he’d never heard Alfred so complacent before.

                “Happy Thanksgiving, Gil,” he said as they turned to go.

                “Ja, Happy Turkey Day or what-the-hell ever.”

_3:01 p.m._

                Arthur was waiting in the front hall when Francis and Alfred returned.

                “Well?”

                “Relax, Arthur.” Francis gave his sweetheart a quick peck on the cheek. “He said its fine. He’s going to get it replaced; no hard feelings.” Arthur flushed, but glared at Alfred nonetheless. He was sporting a large Band-Aid on his forehead and several red scratches on his face and hands from what was already becoming known as The Football Incident.

                “I hope you learned a valuable lesson,” he told Alfred. The boy nodded.

                “Never play football with Daddy!” He turned and ran up the stairs. Arthur growled and Francis laughed.

                “How could anyone not love that child?” Francis put an arm around Arthur’s waist and gave him a quick hug before vanishing back into the kitchen.

_5:15 p.m._

     “Dinner’s ready!” Francis trilled at last. The rest of the family came thundering down the stairs and halted in the doorway of the dining room. Francis felt a glow of success as Alfred and Matthew’s eyes grew wider and wider.

                “There’s so much food,” Matthew said in a hushed voice, holding Kumajiro close to his chest.

                “It’s like heaven,” Alfred added in an awed tone.

                “Well sit down,” Arthur said from behind them. Francis sat at the head of the long table and the boys took up a seat on either side. Arthur sat next to Matthew and led them in a prayer before they were ready to dig in. Alfred grabbed his knife and fork, looking thrilled, but suddenly his expression dropped. Slowly, he laid his fork and knife back down. Biting his lip, he looked at Arthur.

                “Daddy, do I have to eat?” The room went dead silent.

                “Al…you’ve been talking about Thanksgiving dinner for two weeks,” Arthur said carefully. “Do you feel sick?”

                Alfred shook his head. “I just don’t want to eat.”

                “You don’t want to eat?” Matthew asked in shock.

                “I do other things besides eat!” Alfred screeched, leaping up from his seat. “I’m not just a stupid pig you know! The world isn’t going to end because I don’t want to eat!” With that outburst, he bolted from the room and thundered up the stairs to his room.  With massive eyes, Matthew looked to his papa.

                “Shall I go, or will you?” Francis asked with a sigh, setting down the turkey carving knife.

                “I think this might take a team effort,” Arthur said, scooting his chair back. Francis nodded and the two men trooped up after the distraught Alfred.

                “Mattieu, please watch the table!” Francis called to Matthew. “Make sure Winthrop doesn’t eat anything!”

_5: 26 p.m._

                “Alfred?” Arthur asked hesitantly from the doorway of the room the twins shared. There was no reply. Francis walked in, stepping around piles of clothes Alfred had left lying on the floor. He was lying face down on the bottom bunk of their bed. Francis sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Alfred’s back.

                “ _Cheri_ , what’s wrong?” he asked tenderly. Arthur hovered nearby.

                “Nothing,” was the muffled response.

                “Alfred, you’ve never refused a dinner Francis made before,” Arthur said reluctantly. “Just tell us what’s wrong…we want to help you.”

                Alfred was silent for a long moment before there was an incomprehensible and lengthy reply, punctuated by a hysterical tone.

                “We can’t understand you, _petit_ ,” Francis said gently, rubbing Alfred’s back. The boy raised his head a millimeter off the pillow.

                “Peter and Im Yong said I was a dumb, fat pig!” he wailed before flopping back down into the bedcovers.  Arthur drew in a sharp breath.

                “Oh, _mon petit_!” Francis cried, sounding almost as distressed as Alfred. He picked the boy up and Alfred went limp like he did when he didn’t want to be held. Francis ignored this and cradled the corpse-like child to his chest. Arthur was alarmed to see tears streaking the boy’s face-his classmates had really gotten to him. “Don’t listen to them! You’re a lovely boy!”

                Alfred mumbled something incoherent and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

                “Alfred,” Arthur said seriously. “You shouldn’t listen to those boys. If Papa and I thought you were unhealthy we’d fix it.” Alfred didn’t reply.

                “Besides, _amour_ ,” Francis said, “the only opinions that should matter are the ones of those you love. Arthur and I love you very much and we think you’re perfect the way you are. A little messy and loud perhaps, but that’s just you. Mattie loves you too and he wouldn’t ever want you to think this way about yourself.”

                “But everyone thinks I’m stupid,” Alfred sniffled.

                “Hey…since when does the hero care about what his doubters say?” Arthur asked in mock amazement. Alfred’s chin trembled, but he didn’t speak. Arthur could see him mulling this over.

                “But the hero should be smart,” Alfred insisted at last.

                “You are smart!” Francis cried. “Alfred, your grades are fine! They’d be better if you tried more, but it’s not because you’re stupid! Believe me, I’ve seen you do work I couldn’t have done when I was your age!”

                “Really?” Alfred looked up at his papa. Francis nodded.

                “Yes,” Arthur agreed. “If you really want to see an idiot, look at your papa.” Alfred laughed and Francis shot Arthur an un-amused look from over Alfred’s head.

                “So, are you ready to go downstairs and eat the dinner I worked so hard on?” Francis asked, setting Alfred on the bed. He nodded eagerly. “Then let’s go back down; Matthew must be dying down there.”

_5:26 p.m._

                “We’re guarding the table Kumajiro,” Matthew whispered to his bear. “It’s a very important job. Since the hero is down and out, it’s up to us!”

                Winthrop trotted into the room. Matthew gasped.

                “Danger alert! Dog in the area!” he narrated to himself.

                Scotia came winding herself around the corner next, drawn by the scent of poultry.

                “Double gasp! The evil dog’s hated sidekick! The master of stealth! Stay strong, Kumajiro!” Matthew drew his feet onto the chair, lest anything try to nibble at them to distract him. All at once, Winthrop threw his front paws onto the table and started to lap at the mashed potatoes. “No!” Matthew exclaimed. “Stop that!” He waved a hand at Winthrop, but he didn’t react. Matthew got up and dragged the large dog away from the table. “Bad dog!”

                He looked up in time to see Scotia begin gnawing at the turkey. They were swarming him!

                “No, Scotia!” Matthew scolded his cat. He was afraid to let go of Winthrop’s collar, in case he made another go at the mashed potatoes. So he did the only thing he could think of-he threw Kumajiro at the cat. He was sorry to have to do it, but Kumajiro had gone down bravely, protecting the turkey.

                Unfortunately, Matthew had never been gifted with Alfred’s aim. Kumajiro fell short of hitting the cat and instead knocked over one of the tall candles Francis had lit before calling the, all to dinner.

                It seemed to be in slow motion that Matthew threw up his hand, leaning towards the table as if he could halt the inevitable. It took under 6 seconds for the table cloth to catch flame.

                “Oh, no!” Matthew squeaked. He looked frantically from side to side, panicking. Neither his papa nor daddy had poured milk for the boys yet, so there was nothing to put it out! He let go of Winthrop, deciding that this crisis surpassed protection of the mashed potatoes. He desperately sought a clean area of the counter to climb onto so he could get a glass to fill with water.

                When he finally managed to get one, he had to climb onto the sink to reach the faucet and by the time he reached the table and threw the water on it, half the table was engulfed in flames. Matthew squealed, twisting his shirt up in his hands. He ran back to the kitchen for another glass of water, but he knew when he arrived with the second glass it was too late. So he did the only reasonable thing he could think of-scream.

_6:00 p.m._

                Matthew’s piercing scream drifted up to the catwalk and Francis had a second to meet Arthur’s eyes before they both tore down the steps.

                “ _Mon Dieu_!” Francis screamed upon seeing the dining room. “Matthew, what did you do!?”

                “I didn’t try to!” Matthew sobbed, immediately bursting into tears. “I was trying to hold onto Winthrop and then Scotia was eating the turkey and I wanted to be the hero for once so I threw Kumajiro but he hit a candle and he deserves a purple heart for bravery and I tried to put the fire out with water but I couldn’t find a glass and then I was too late and the dinner was ruined!”

                “My dinner!” Francis sounded as if someone had just stabbed his mother. Then he did what might have been the stupidest thing of all time. He tried to run over to the table and grab the turkey.

                “Francis, you moron!” Arthur lunged forward and grabbed Francis’s wrist, dragging him out of the room. “Matthew! Get out!” Arthur shoved Francis towards the door.

                “Wow! We need to call the firemen!” Alfred cried, sounding more excited than scared. He ran around through the living room and into the kitchen. He grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. “Fire dudes! My brother set the table on fire and we need you guys!” He gave them his address before Arthur came running in and grabbed Alfred under his arm and ran out the front door.

                Francis and Matthew were on the grass, staring in horror. As soon as Arthur set Alfred down on the grass, Francis made a beeline back towards the dining room.

                “For God’s sake Francis!” Arthur screamed. He once again ran after his husband and, throwing dignity aside, he tackled Francis to the ground by the bottom of the stairs. “Stop it!”

                “I worked so hard on that!” Francis was actually _crying_ over the loss of his dinner. Smoke billowed out of the dining room and the heat was unbearable. Arthur’s eyes stung badly.

                “I don’t care!” Arthur slapped Francis across the face. “I don’t want to lose you over a stupid Thanksgiving dinner!” Francis didn’t speak, but the look on his face was similar to the one that Alfred had worn just half an hour prior. Gradually, Arthur rolled off of Francis, but the Frenchman lingered far too close to the flames for Arthur’s liking. “You’re going to have to forgive me for this later,” he said right before he grabbed Francis and slung the Frenchman over one shoulder, making for the door.

                “Put me down! _Arête! C’est pas gentile! Arête! Arête_!” Francis beat on Arthur’s back, but the Englishman was too focused on not collapsing to be concerned with that. At last he dumped Francis in the yard and Matthew immediately ran to Francis’s side.

                “Papa!” he cried, his lower lip trembling.

                “You stupid idiot!” Arthur shouted hoarsely. “You could have DIED! Over a bloody damn Thanksgiving dinner! You son of a bitch! You would have left me here with two kids!” Francis looked at the grass as he sat up.

                “ _Je_ _suis_ _désolé*_ ,” he said softly. “I-I just worked so HARD on that.”

                “Well I worked on it too,” Arthur said, irritated. He paced around the grass while Alfred and Matthew stared at the burning dining room.

                “You made SCONES,” Francis said with emphasis. A pizza car drove by and pulled up in Gilbert’s driveway.

                “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alfred said. He was interrupted by a loud shattering sound. They all turned and saw that one of the dining room windows had exploded outwards with the heat. It was quickly followed by the other three. Francis gave a moan of pain.

_6:49 p.m._

                The fire truck pulled up to cheers from Alfred. Matthew was still too much in shock and fear of punishment to be excited. Alfred ran back and forth between the truck and the hose while the firemen tried to extinguish the front half of the house.

                At last the flames died down and as Francis and Arthur resumed their argument, Alfred was allowed to sit in the front of the truck.

                “What’s wrong with my scones?” Arthur demanded. “You told me to make them!”

                “I didn’t want you ruining my other dishes!” Francis confessed at last, getting to his feet. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings!” Arthur recoiled.

                “You wanker! I can’t believe you! My scones are delicious! Alfred eats them!”

                “Alfred’s taste buds have long ago been destroyed by your deadly cooking!” Francis snapped.

                “Daddy, Papa! Look at me! I’m the hero!” Alfred yelled from the fire truck, waving. “Mattie, grab onto the side! You can be my best firefighter, but I get to the fire chief, okay?”

                Matthew nodded and climbed aboard the truck. The returning firemen gave each boy a badge sticker and a plastic fire hat. When the truck pulled away, Francis and Arthur realized the a good portion of the neighborhood had been watching this, meaning they stared for forty minutes while Arthur and Francis screamed at each other while their house burned down. They both fell silent, red in the face as their children came running over to them.

                “Daddy, what are we going to do now?” Alfred asked.

                “Papa, do you hate me now?” Matthew asked Francis, his face crumpling up. Francis gasped in horror.

                “Of course not, petit!” he cried dramatically, scooping Matthew off the ground and holding him close. “It wasn’t completely your fault! I shouldn’t have left lit candles on the table.” Matthew began to cry with relief. He wasn’t going to be disowned! “Shh, shh… _Mon petit_ _chou_ _,_ _je t_ _’aime!_ I could never stop loving you over something so silly as a dinner!” He stroked Matthew’s hair.

                “Daddy!” Alfred tugged on Arthur’s sleeve. “What are we going to do for Thanksgiving?”

_9:00 p.m._

                “I hate this idea,” Arthur said again.

                “We KNOW, dad,” Alfred intoned from the back seat.

                “It’s a bad idea.”

                “It’s the only one we’ve got!” Francis said tightly. “So can you TRY to have a positive attitude? They are family.”

                “Bad family,” Arthur grumped.

                He still hadn’t reconciled to the plan when they walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell, smelling of smoke, burned turkey and lightly dusted with ashes.

                “Yeah, I’m sure THAT’S the reason, Raak!” An amused female voice reached their ears from the other side of the door just before it was thrown open by a woman dressed in an apron with bright red hair and green eyes just like Arthur’s. She scanned the scene in front of her and looked to Arthur’s surly face with a flat expression. “What are you doing here?” she asked distastefully.

                “Mattie burned the house down!” Alfred said cheerily.

                “I did not!” Matthew interjected, his voice shaking. “And it was only half the house!”

                “We need a place to spend Thanksgiving,” Arthur muttered, almost inaudibly. “We thought you might be willing to host us.” The woman was silent a long time.

                “You know in any other circumstance I would slam the door in your face and laugh,” she told Arthur. He nodded, glaring fiercely at his shoes. “But…for my friendship with Francis and my love of my nephews—” she glanced adoringly at Alfred, “—I’ll let you stay. Come in.” She left the doorway and walked through a dimly lit, cottage-like house to the dining room by the back porch. “Angus! Can you get us some more chairs? We have company!”

                “Who is it?” called a rough, Scottish voice.

                “You’ll never guess!” Aunt Mairead replied, leaving the Bonnefoy-Kirklands in the dining room as she fetched more plates and silverware from the kitchen.

                “Brother,” Arthur acknowledged Iain through his teeth, dipping his head.

                “I don’t like this idea, Mairead!” Iain told his sister.

                “Join the club,” Arthur grumbled.

_9:45 p.m._

It was clear that the Mairead and her guestshad been almost done with dinner when Arthur and the kids showed up, but they all stayed for politeness’s sake. Their cousins from Australia and New Zealand seemed to fit right in with the red-headed siblings, toasting and laughing over old stories together. Arthur…not so much.

But he couldn’t complain over their treatment of his family. Both Mairead and Iain were close friends with Francis and the former adored Alfred more than she could say. Angus and Matthew got along because, like Matthew, Angus was the quiet one of the family.

“So these are really your brothers daddy?” Alfred asked, shoveling some cranberry sauce into his mouth.

“Yes, Alfred,” Arthur said wearily.

“A toast!” Iain declared, raising his beer mug.

“To what?” exclaimed Kowhai. “I think we’ve toasted everything known to man by now!” She pushed a stray lock of black hair from her face.

“To watching for selkies!” Iain cried.

“Hear, hear!” Mairead echoed, her face glowing with pleasure at the memory. They all clinked glasses and/or mugs and drank deeply.

“You’re barmy, the lot of you,” Arthur told them. “Aren’t you going to offer Francis and I something to drink?”

“We’ve got no wine for Francis,” Mairead said, “and you can’t hold your alcohol. I’m not dealing with another cuddle-session tonight, especially as there’s been a thunderstorm prediction.”

Arthur blushed and stabbed a bit of green bean with unwarranted venom. “I can so hold my alcohol!” he cried.

“Daddy used to drink?” Matthew gasped, aghast.

“Dad, did you get drunk?” asked Alfred, bouncing up and down in his seat.

“Absolutely-”

“Totally and completely,” Mairead finished for him. “Hey, has he ever told you about the Ulster Incident?” she asked suddenly, grinning at the boys, who both shook their heads.

“Don’t tell that story,” Arthur begged.

“Tell it, tell it!” Matthew and Alfred cajoled.

“Well, we-that is, Uncle Iain, Uncle Angus, your daddy and I-were at, where were we? A friend’s party or something,” Mairead began. “And before coming, we had all gone out to dinner. And let me tell you, your daddy had a bit too much to drink. I knew it was serious when he tried to hug me.”

“It was freaky,” Iain put in. “I thought about knocking him out, but Angus vetoed that idea.”

“Anyway,” Mairead went on. “I had dyed my hair black earlier that day for a movie premier and hadn’t had time to wash it. Now, at the same time, there was this other girl there-Fionna-who your dad had a HUGE crush on.”

Alfred and Francis both smirked at Arthur, who once more looked to the sky for strength.

“But she had REAL black hair. Now, I was talking to my friend Feliks when Arthur decides that now would be a good time to make a move on Fionna. Except he got us mixed up. He came up behind me and yelled ‘I claim your Ulster Province for King George!’, whatever the hell that means, and grabbed my chest,” Mairead finished, laughter sneaking through her words.

“I wasn’t thinking properly!” Arthur protested, his face tomato red.

“Oh, aye, that much is clear!” Iain roared, slapping the table. The story went a bit over Matthew and Alfred’s heads, but they pleaded to hear another story about their daddy over pumpkin pie.

“No, I think that’s quite enough,” Arthur interrupted. “Mairead, where do you plan on putting everyone?”

“Easy,” she said, licking the whipped cream off her fork. “Raak will sleep in Angus’s room, Kowhai in mine and Francis in Iain’s on cots so that Matthew and Alfred can share the guest bedroom.”

“And me?” Arthur pressed.

“You can have the couch,” Mairead pointed her fork towards the living room. Suddenly Matthew gasped.

“Kumajiro!” he shrieked, his eyes flying wide open as he remembered at last that his bear had been left inside the house. Tears welled in his eyes and Francis hurried to his side.

“Don’t worry Mattieu,” Francis cried, holding onto Matthew. “We’ll get you a new Kumajiro!”

“I don’t want a new one!” Matthew screamed. In a show of behavior most unlike him, he thrashed around violently, slipping right into a tantrum. Francis desperately tried to calm the usually placid boy. Mairead got up and disappeared upstairs, returning with a worn old bunny.

“Hey Mattie,” she said softly. “I know this isn’t your Kumagichi-”

“Kumajiro!” Francis hissed.

“-Kumajiro, but you can have it if you like.” She handed Matthew the bunny. He stared blankly at it. “It used to belong to my little brother,” she explained, putting a hand on his head. “It was your daddy’s.”

Arthur stared. _She still has that?_   Iain met his gaze, as if to dare him to say anything about it.

Matthew gave the bunny an experimental hug and decided it would do.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Mairead smiled and patted his head.

“No problem, laddie.”

_10:13 p.m._

Alfred and Matthew each got an oversized t-shirt from Iain to wear and they collapsed in bed, exhausted.

 “If you guys need anything, just wake me!” Mairead told the boys as she closed their door. Iain stopped by with a couple glasses of water for them.

“Here you go lads,” he said. “Sleep well now!”

They were silent for a long time after Iain switched off the lights.

“Mattie?” Alfred whispered.

“Yes?” Matthew didn’t turn to look at Alfred.

“I’m sorry ‘bout Kumajiro,” he said. Matthew sighed.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But hey, you shouldn’t be too upset!” Alfred said, ever the optimist. “Now he can be one with the house! Like, his body was burned but his spirit lives on and stuff!”

“Should we say a prayer for him?” Matthew asked.

“Yeah!” The boys got up and knelt in the middle of the sheets, hands folded, heads bowed. “Dear God, please take care of Kumajiro. He was always good to us and we want him to be happy in bear heaven. Make sure he has lots of fish and-Matt, what was his favorite show?”

“Jimmy Neutron,” Matthew said.

“-and lots of Jimmy Neutron to watch,” Alfred finished. “Amen.”

With that, the twins curled up to go to sleep, exhausted from the events of the day.

_11:00 p.m._

“Mairead, there are no pillows or blankets down here!” Arthur yelled up the small staircase. There was no reply, but a ratty old blanket landed at the base of the stairs. Arthur picked it up and recognized the blanket he used to carry around when he was little. _How much of my baby stuff has she kept?_ He wondered. Nothing else was forthcoming, so he laid down on the couch, using one of the rock-like couch pillows for his head and trying to stretch the tiny blanket over himself.

And so ended the rather… _interesting_ Thanksgiving at the Bonnefoy-Kirkland household.


End file.
